


Five Superheroes Dean Winchester Never Slept With

by derryderrydown



Category: DCU - Comicverse, Supernatural
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-17
Updated: 2009-11-17
Packaged: 2017-10-03 04:12:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Does exactly what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Superheroes Dean Winchester Never Slept With

"Can you handle a bow?" Roy asked.

The guy checked his handgun, in case new ammo had materialised during the sprint to the end of the alley, and said, "Better with a crossbow."

"No problem." Roy uncollapsed the collapsible crossbow strapped to his thigh and tossed it over. "Bolts are in the stock."

He watched the guy's first few shots but he wasn't lying, he could handle a crossbow, and that left Roy free to concentrate on his own aim. Five minutes later, the last of the hairy, loping beasts was down.

"Got any magnesium powder?" the guy asked, heaving the beast on top of its companions. "God, these things stink."

"Not something I carry," Roy said and was quite pleased with how unconcerned he sounded.

"I've got some in my bag." The guy glanced back the way they'd run. "If any of them move, shoot them in the heart again. It'll keep them down for a minute or so."

"Sure," Roy said, and leaned against the wall.

He had time to shoot a couple of them before the guy was back.

"Can I get my arrows back before you do whatever you're planning on doing with the bodies?"

The guy kicked one of the bodies and seemed satisfied with the results. "Don't take too long."

Roy didn't. Even so, one of the bodies was twitching by the time he'd retrieved most of his arrows.

"The damn things just don't get the message," the guy muttered and plunged a knife into the heart of the twitching beast, making it sag back on to the ground. Then he poured magnesium over the bodies, said something in Latin or Greek or something old, and looked up at Roy. "Shut your eyes," he said, lit a match, shut his own eyes, and dropped it.

Roy only just got his eyes shut before there was a shattering flare of white. It only lasted a few moments and, when he looked, the bodies were reduced to ash.

"That it?" Roy asked.

The guy kicked the ashes away. "That'll do it." He tossed the crossbow back to Roy. "Thanks for the loan."

"No problem." Roy collapsed the crossbow and held his hand out. "I'm Roy."

The guy stared at him for a second, eyebrow raised, then shook his hand. "Dean."

"New to town?"

Dean smiled, but not at Roy. "Just passing through."

"Wanna fuck?"

Dean shrugged. "Sure."

* * *

Gotham was a shithole but at least you could get decent coffee. Dean wrapped his hands round his mug and studied the newspaper for any sign of the monkey-man that had brought him, Dad and Sammy here.

"Anyone sitting here?"

Dean's automatic reaction was to scowl at the intruder. But he glanced up and caught himself in time to turn it into a smile. Blonde hotties were always welcome. "Help yourself."

"Thanks." She kicked a chair out and sat down. "Not normally so packed in the morning. And I can't face the walk to school without my coffee."

"I know the feeling."

"You go to school round here?"

"Gotham U. You?"

"High school."

Okay. That was unexpected. Still, he was only twenty-one, she could be seventeen. It was only four years. So he smiled and held out his hand. "Dean."

She smiled back. "Steph." Her grip was suprisingly strong, her hands surprisingly calloused. Dean liked it.

So he gave her his all and she left with his number written on the back of her hand, promising to call.

*

That night, he was chasing down something that might have been the monkey-man when he was jumped by a bunch of hoods.

And that was a whole world of unfair. A blast of rock salt would discourage a ghost but it did fuck all against a gang of angry thugs.

What a way to go. Dad would be furious.

And then a figure dropped out of nowhere, purple cloak billowing behind it. Next thing, they were fighting back-to-back, as natural as if they'd been training together for years, and the fight was _fun_ again. But it didn't last long enough.

When he finally got a look under the figure's hood, there was a startling moment when it didn't seem to have a face and then the blackness resolved itself into a mask.

"Thanks," Dean said.

The figure cocked its head. "Follow me," it said and sprang up the wall, scrambling from ledge to ledge.

"Shit," Dean said and started to follow. He'd got up to the first storey when a rope slithered down the wall. When he looked up, he could make out a faint blur of purple.

"Want a lift or not?"

Dean wrapped the rope around his arm and let himself be pulled up.

The rooftop wasn't bright but there was enough light to make out the curves under the purple cloak that meant his rescuer was female. Which was kind of a turn-on.

Even more of a turn-on when she was pressed up against him and he could actually _feel_ those curves. And then she'd hooked his leg and pushed him and he was on his back on the rooftop.

"Fuck!"

"Sorry," she said, and she was breathless. "Fighting turns me on. You?"

"What do you look like under the mask?"

She froze. "Does it matter?"

"Just- You're not a demon or something?" Dad would rip him a new asshole for fucking someone without even seeing their _face_. But, jesus, he didn't think he could say no.

She laughed, and it was warm and breathy. "Not a demon. Just a girl."

"That'll do me." And he sounded just as breathy but, shit, she was opening his jeans and her hands were on his cock and she was still wearing her fucking gloves.

"Condom?" she said.

"Fuck. Fuck." He had one in his wallet. He knew he had one. And he was fumbling around trying to find it when she took his wallet out of his hand.

"Got it." And she was rolling it on and the night air was cold against his skin and then there was just _warmth_ as she sank on to him and he didn't have a clue when she'd taken her own pants off but her hips were bare and hot under his hands.

He slid one hand up, under her top, under her bra, and her breast was warm and smooth and heavy in his hand as she moved.

"Fuck, yes," she breathed, and her movements changed, became more purposeful. She was making noises now, quiet little rhythmic cries, and Dean took it as an invitation and moved his hand from her hip to the nest of warm curls at her groin.

Her hand was hard on his wrist, not guiding him so much as steering him, _ordering_ him, and her cries changed pitch, became more frantic, and then she flung her head back and it was almost a wail.

Finally, she released his hand and leaned forward, her hands on his chest. "Thanks," she said, and he could hear her smiling.

"My turn," he said and rolled her over. With her legs wrapped round his hips, it was only a couple of thrusts until his own orgasm shuddered through him and he bit down on her shoulder to muffle his cries.

After a couple of moments when he couldn't have moved if a demon popped up in front of him, she pushed his shoulder. "Off."

"Yes, _sir_," he said, but he was too sated for there to be any bite in his voice. He held the condom in place as he slid out of her and then she was standing up.

"Got any kleenex?"

"Um." It took a moment to get his brain functioning again and then he fumbled in his jacket pocket and tossed her a wad. He kept some to clean himself up and- "Oh, _fuck_."

"What?" Her voice was sharp, wary, and she quickly pulled her pants up, looking around them as though expecting an attack.

"The condom split." He fastened his own jeans.

"Oh, _shit_ no."

Tonight was meant to be spent hunting down a monkey-man, Dean thought. Something nice and peaceful and normal. Not this. "I'm clean, if that's any consolation."

"Not really."

"No. Not really." He scrubbed his hands over his face and then kind of wished he hadn't because they still smelled strongly of her. "Fuck."

She took a deep breath. "Well, I've got your number. I'll give you a call if necessary."

He shot to his feet and his shotgun was too damn far away but he had the knife in his boot. "How did you get my number?"

He was starting to be able to see facial expressions behind her mask. He could certainly see her smile. "You _gave_ it to me. Dean." And then she shot a line from some kind of gadget and leaped off the roof.

"Steph," he said, and knew his disbelief was reflected in his voice.

*

Two days later, the quake hit and Dean's phone got smashed.

They left town the day after that.

* * *

Dean was edgy and annoyed and there was blood crusted in his hair and all he wanted was a damn drink. So when the guy at the bar started in on him, there was nothing to stop him swinging a punch and following it up with a kick and another punch and then his arm was stopped as if he'd punched concrete.

The bouncer holding him back was a seven foot tall Asian chick with red hair and tattoos.

Dean grinned.

Later that night, she moved on top of him and he gasped for breath under her weight and he didn't give a crap that he was bleeding again because he hadn't felt this alive since Sammy had gone.

In the morning, she kicked him out with a pat on the ass and instructions to look her up next time he was in town.

He did.

* * *

This was _not_ standard procedure. Dean had been arrested often enough to know standard procedure. The trouble was that this was Bludhaven, where standard procedure was being thrown - literally - into a cell while the cops tried to decide if you had enough money to buy your freedom.

Being handcuffed to a lamppost while a far-too-young, far-too-pretty cop interrogated him was an improvement.

"Let's just clarify. You were chasing a ghost and it led you into the young lady's bedroom."

Which, yeah, it sounded pretty implausible. Dean shrugged. "That's about it."

"And can you describe this ghost?"

"The usual. White, transparent, clanking chains and going 'Ooooo!' a lot."

"Right." The cop swung his nightstick but it seemed to be a habit more than a threat. "You couldn't come up with a better story?"

Dean wasn't paying attention. The spirit was right behind the cop, and it wasn't clanking its chains so much as whirling them round its head. Any second now, it was going to take the cop's head off.

"Fuck," Dean muttered and finished picking the cuffs, rolled, grabbed his shotgun from the seat of the squad car, and fired a load of rock salt at the ghost. Which, thank fuck, vanished.

"Well, _that_ was interesting," the cop said, now crouching beside his car's front wheel.

So Dean had to come up with an explanation for nearly shooting a cop's head off. Great.

"I take it that was the ghost you were chasing?"

Perhaps it wouldn't be that difficult to explain after all.

A few minutes later, the cop was sitting cross-legged on the hood of his squad car. "And you think the bones are under the floorboards of Ms Borthallen's bedroom?"

"Yeah." Dean absently rubbed his wrist where one bracelet of the cuffs was still attached. "Getting at them's the problem."

The cop seemed to consider it. "Do they have to be burned in situ?"

"That's right. I was just hoping she wouldn't notice the fire under her bed," Dean said sarcastically.

"So you just need to get the bones out of there. Easier for a police officer to do it than a burglar." The cop seemed to make his mind up and practically somersaulted off the hood. "I'm cuffing you while I'm gone." He glanced at the cuffs dangling uselessly from Dean's wrist. "Though I'm not sure it'll do a lot of good."

Dean shrugged. "I need the bones. I'll stay put."

Although he hadn't said he'd stay cuffed. That was just asking for trouble. As soon as Officer Grayson was safely inside the building, Dean picked the cuffs and leaned against the car.

It seemed to take forever for the building door to swing open again. Dean hastily shoved his wrists behind him to at least give the impression of still being cuffed. Grayson had his cap off and was smiling at Linda Borthallen, who was smiling back with the daffy-eyed expression of the newly-smitten. More importantly, Grayson was carrying a black garbage sack.

"Did you get Jack Skellington?" Dean asked, once Grayson had disengaged himself.

Grayson lifted the sack and didn't seem at all surprised that Dean now had the cuffs dangling from his right wrist. "One skeleton, just where you said. What do we do now?"

There was a movement behind the cop's shoulder. "Damn spook doesn't know when to give up," Dean said, grabbed his shotgun and fired it past Grayson. The ghost let out an angry shriek before shredding away. "We find somewhere to salt and burn the bones. And quick. Casper here's feeling a bit protective."

Grayson blinked a little at the noise of the gun but didn't flinch. Tougher than your average Bludhaven cop, Dean noted. "Down the alley. I take it that's where you were planning on doing it if you hadn't been interrupted?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "And breach city ordinances about burning waste?"

Grayson didn't bother calling him on his crap but strode into the alley. Shotgun at the ready and bag on his shoulder, Dean followed.

The bones landed on the cracked asphalt with a greasy thud and Grayson pulled a face. "How old is this ghost?"

"Killed in '84." Dean tossed the shotgun to Grayson. "If you see anything ghost-like, shoot the fucker." He pulled the super-economy-value-sized pack of salt out of his bag and scattered it liberally over the deformed bones.

"The guy must have had a miserable life," Grayson said thoughtfully.

"Hmm?" Dean glanced up. "Oh, yeah, probably. One of those things with the freak kid who's locked away so it doesn't scare the neighbours." He started splashing gas over the bones.

"Poor kid," Grayson said.

Dean snorted. "The poor kid has killed two people, injured twelve and had a damn good try at taking my leg off. And that's just _since_ he's been dead. Stand ba-" He was flying backwards, Grayson's shoulder in his chest, and the rusty fire escape above them was collapsing in slow motion.

Dean just had time to grab Grayson and roll them both away before the escape thundered to the ground, abused metal screaming in protest. And with the escape came the hunched, cackling figure.

And Dean hadn't rolled them far enough because there was an iron bar pinning their legs.

"Fuck," Dean groaned and scrabbled for the matches. He just got his hand on them as the ghost hit the ground, chains whirling. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." It took forever to get the match lit and then he had to toss it to the bones without it going out and it was too damn far. A second match, a third, and the ghost was getting closer and he couldn't fucking _move_ and he wasn't even sure that Grayson was breathing.

And finally, fucking _finally_, a gust of wind that helped him and the fire leapt over the bones. Dean sagged back and didn't even bother watching the ghost burning up like celluloid.

After a moment, he prodded Grayson. "Yo, man. You alive?"

He got a groan in response.

"Want to help me get us out of here?"

Another groan, but this one might have had some words buried in it.

"Cause you're pretty and all but I don't think this is the place to be snuggling."

"Oh, fuck you," Grayson said, clearly, and lifted his head. "Okay, on three."

With two of them shoving, it wasn't too tough to get free. Dean was the first to his feet and he reached down to help Grayson up. He frowned when Grayson kept his right arm tucked against his chest. "Are you hurt?"

Grayson shook his head but, even in the dim light of the alley, he looked pale.

"If you can't use your arm, you can't drive. Fuck." He didn't need this but the guy _had_ just saved his ass. "Are you going to call for back-up or do you want me to drop you at a hospital?"

"No hospital. No back-up." Grayson took a deep breath. "But I'd be grateful if you'd take me to my apartment and help me patch myself up."

Damn. "Okay."

*

"So which one's the siren?" Dean asked, pressing buttons. "Oh, that's the lights."

"Turn them off," Grayson said, but he sounded amused.

"You've got to be kidding. Like I'm going to get to drive a cop car again. _That's_ the siren."

With sirens, lights and Grayson's directions, it didn't take too long to reach his apartment and get him upstairs.

"Can you get your shirt off?" Dean asked.

Grayson shook his head.

"Then I hope you've got a spare uniform here, cause I'm going to cut it off."

Dean took his time slicing off Grayson's shirt, careful not to nick the skin, and tried to be gentler than normal while examining his shoulder. And if he also happened to give Grayson's torso a cursory exam, it was the guy's own fault for being so hot. And scarred. Very interestingly scarred.

"Looks like it's dislocated. Can you lift it?"

"No." Grayson gave it a try anyway. "Definitely dislocated." His gaze turned appraising. "I'm going to guess that you know how to put a shoulder back in."

"If you don't mind it hurting like fuck."

Grayson's smile was off. "Oh, I think I can cope."

Dean shrugged. "Your funeral. Or rather, your agonising pain." He kept his eyes shut as he ran his hands over Grayson's shoulder, working out the best angle. "Okay, grab the table and don't move."

It was less a snap and more a grind, and Dean was impressed that Grayson didn't yell because it had to hurt like fuck. Even Dad shouted when he was having his shoulder put back in.

"You're good," Dean said and stepped back.

Grayson swung his arm experimentally and grimaced. "It'll do."

Dean shrugged. "You want quality service, you go to the hospital." He let it become obvious that he was looking at Grayson's scars. "But I'm guessing you have your reasons."

"Yes." His tone didn't invite confidences.

"Want me to dress the cuts on your back? While I'm here."

Grayson studied him for a seemingly endless moment. "If you'll let me do your legs."

Dean grinned. "Pamper me all you want, man."

* * *

Dean always went to the same club when they were in New York. It was sticky and sweaty and the beer was shit but it played Metallica and Black Sabbath and Def Leppard. Sometimes, Sam tagged along, grumbling and complaining and nursing one light beer all night.

Mostly, Dean liked having him there. But when there was a hot guy, all black hair and blue eyes, grinding up against him, pushing him against the wall, kissing him like it was an attack, Dean could wish Sam wasn't watching.

Because it felt too good knowing that he was.


End file.
